Things We Don't Say
by darlingharbour
Summary: "What are we?" He looks at me, like he had expected this and thinks for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Friends," he says, sounding sure of himself. I feel myself recoil in confusion; "Friends sleep together?" "No...But we do." Oneshot.


**A/N: **Long title, I know. But I suck at naming the things I write, and it seemed most fitting. Warning: major OOCness, grade-F plot, author who once again doesn't know what she's doing...Hope you enjoy nonetheless. By the way, I'm currently working on and revising the second chapter (well technically the first, but oh well) to Burning Alive. Thanks for your reviews, alerts, favourites, etc.! I never expected any, much less anything positive. And in the draft I wrote for this fic, it was originally Shawn instead of Randy. So if you see some Shawn-ly characteristics, you know why. xo.

**We Say Things We Don't Mean and Mean Things We Don't Say**

Up until a few weeks ago, there was just me and him. No 'us,' no 'we', and definitely not an 'it' – a situation tying us together as something more than simple friends. There was nothing, nada. I was fine with that, he was too. At least I believed so on both of our parts.

And then there was a night where I gave into myself; I found a bar whose name I still cannot remember, plopped myself onto a stool adjoining the counter behind which stood the bartender, and stared at the alcohol adorning the shelves all around him. I debated with myself for an indefinite amount of time before I made the decision. I tossed aside every single fibre of my better judgement and requested a beer. It was placed in front of me within a matter of seconds and I remember thinking (miraculously; I hardly remembered anything from that night let alone my thought) how fast and easy that had been.

I had taken the bottle into my hands, examined it as though there was something written on the label that would actually stop me from drinking it, and then finally copped a swig. The taste was deliciously bitter – it had been so long. So I had granted myself another mouth-full and then several more afterwards. At the time I didn't care about the repercussions, all that was concerning me at that moment was indulging in myself, even if it landed me in the slammer or passed out in the bar (which were both equally stupid things for me to have even pretended didn't matter).

I wanted this...I had wanted it for so long. And now here it was, no one was stopping me or giving me a reason for me to. My wife had left me for another man...My daughter had gone with her...I was reverting back to old, juvenile habits now that everything I had was gone. Bottle after bottle, I didn't consume the liquor...It consumed me.

Soon my senses were blurred and nothing was able to grab my attention save for the demanding Budweisers that were calling my name. I didn't even notice when _he_walked in, drowning in the same waters as I was, and just as lonely. As I sat there, sitting inertly and oblivious to everything but my own world of self-pity and self-indulgence, he made his way over to me. Stumbling a bit, of course, but somehow he managed to carry the grace of someone perfectly sober and then some. By now I had noticed and was gazing curiously at him, wondering how he could be so coordinated and be walking over to my direction. Then even I knew I was too miserable to be around (even drunk) and to think that maybe this guy thought otherwise amazed me. So I didn't ignore him or try to leave. I sat there waiting until he reached me.

To be honest we were never really good friends, we hadn't ever been close, nor had we ever hardly seen each other outside of the ring, or the company to be fair. Sure we had had get-togethers with some of the other boys, some of our mutual friends, but we hadn't ever hung out alone or got to know one another deeper than what was on the surface. Despite all those faults though, we maintained somewhat of an acquaintanceship. We'd smile when we passed each other in the hallway, we'd laugh to the other's jokes, rib the other Superstars...You know, that sort of stuff. There was a mutual respect of our boundaries, but that night we completely disregarded every rule we had.

He kissed me.

Of course, we talked first. To a sober man or woman, our conversation would be thought of as amusing. We were making small talk, and that alone was laughable but we were intoxicated so of course we were slurring every which way.

Before long we were outside the bar, propped against the front of the stop sign as we waited for someone to hail us a cab, or a late-night bus to approach (although that was highly unlikely). It was around 1 in the morning and the street was bare. There was hardly any traffic in the part of the city, but the noise of it nearby could be heard for miles.

He could hardly talk anymore and I hardly could either. There was a lapse of immeasurable silence before he turned me, his pale blue eyes highlighted by the light of the moon hanging in the night sky.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, noticeably having no qualms about it at all.

I was a bit perplexed as to why he'd want to, and admittedly a bit scared and upset for thinking I was...that way. I remember shaking my head profusely. "No. We don't need that..."

I watched a single car drift by before he invaded the panorama, his emotion nonchalant. "I think we should try," he shrugged. "Nothing bad will happen..."

"Uh-huh," more refusals on my behalf.

"C'mon."

"Why?"

He shrugged again. "Haven't you ever thought of it?"

"Thought of what?"

"Kissing a man."

"I was married," I reminded him, scowling, and wishing he'd just drop it. This was sobering me up far more quickly than any Tylenol or cup of coffee taken in the morning could... "I only ever thought of kissing a woman; my wife."

Quiet. I observed him bite his lip in thought, taking in the fact that we were no longer acting as if we were drunk. Maybe it had been a figment of our imaginations, but with the feelings of light-headedness and other recognizable signs, I knew otherwise.

Abruptly, he had me up against the post of the stop sign and before I could fathom what was happening – or about to happen – his warm breath was on my neck and his hands were snaking around my neck. I looked down at him to find that the colour of his eyes were more silver than blue, and it stole my breath just taking that in. He smiled in a way that I knew was both encouraging and seductive.

It was warm weather that night, but that one moment sent shivers down my spine.

"Just close your eyes, Viper," he commanded softly. His voice, I noticed later, was a mixture of persuasion and urgency, as though he had been practicing his every word.

Needless to say, though, I complied.

And he did not disappoint.

Never before had I known how soft his lips were, let alone ever allow myself to have such thoughts about him. Or another man, to be more appropriate. But I through away every reservation I had ever had when his lips met mine. He tasted of spearmint and alcohol and it was incredible, addicting. Nothing except for the need to breathe could've pulled me away from him. Afterwards, as we both panted for air, leaning against one another for no particular reason but to remain close, he just smiled.

He smiled and kissed me one, two, three more times before we finally found a way back to the hotel, retreating to our separate rooms and falling asleep without any feeling of shame whatsoever.

Waking up with a hangover, the first thing I did was call him.

That was the first times of many we shared together during the following two months. It was just kissing, experimenting, touching at first and then within the first 14 days it turned to things less innocent. We slept together on the seventh night and thereafter continued to do so every opportunity.

No one knew of us, we made sure of that. I didn't tell John, or any of my other friends, and he didn't tell any of his. We also made sure never to be seen together when it wasn't necessary. If people we knew caught sight of us being buddy-buddy in public, they just assumed our friendship was growing. However, if they caught sight of us heading to his or my hotel room, they might become suspicious, and we weren't going to let anyone find us out.

There were occasions when I thought of ending it. Occasions such as visiting my little girl and feeling guilty that her daddy was in such a shambled relationship, or talking to either my mother or John and listen to them rant on and on about how I should get back in the dating game and find another woman. Those times I would hang up the phone after bidding goodbye and just lie in bed, thinking of me and him, and if things would be better if I broke things off. Other times would be when I was lying next to him, even. He'd be sound asleep and I'd be there, watching as he shifted and murmured, unaware of me and the doubts of us swirling in my head. The sun would be shining its radiance perfectly onto his golden hair, his innocent face and slender form and everything I had ever been thinking would disappear in an instant.

How is he so okay with this? is what I'd have been asking myself earlier.

How is he so beautiful? is what I'd be asking myself afterwards.

I also mulled over the fact that maybe I was using him as a rebound. Maybe this whole thing was just a result of my loneliness and heartbreak. I didn't want to hurt him, hurting him would be hurting me, but then at the same time I realized that we weren't tied in a comitted relationship – we were solely based on intimacy. That made me feel a lot better about what I had been considering. If this was anything other than physicality, then maybe it'd be different. But it was, so I gathered all my senses and decided this would continue no more.

But then when I did convince myself that it would all be okay, he did it again – he lured me in with his cornflower eyes and his charming smile and his small, firm body. He used himself against me, changed my decision before I could even tell him about it, and we inevitably ended up back in bed again.

Thus is why and how I'm lying here next to him the morning after.

He's sleeping next to me, his adorably light snores echoing in the otherwise silent room and it takes all I have not to kiss him awake. Especially since with his every breath his pretty lips are parting and closing sweetly. The sight of him is enticing, it always has been, and I can't stop myself. My lips are against his, the taste of him still lingering and now refreshed. I feel him gasp and pull away. He blinks repeatedly in response to the bright light shining through the slightly drawn-curtained window and then smiles lazily.

"Randy..." he yawns, delighted.

I smile at his response. "How are you feeling?"

He stretches out his arms and then his legs; wincing slightly in discomfort and what I hope isn't pain. "Sore," he says, grinning broadly now, "but then again, you've always had that effect on me."

I can feel myself reddening. It doesn't go unnoticed. He laughs. "Randy..."

And before I can withhold myself, I find myself vocalizing the question I've wanted to ask ever since we first...got involved. "What are we?"

He looks at me, like he had expected this and thinks for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Friends," he says, sounding sure of himself.

I feel myself recoil in confusion; "Friends sleep together?"

"No...But we do."

I sit up, a bit angered by his simple answer. "I'm aware of that," I reply bitingly. The way he's just lying there and looking at me as if I'm the one that's suddenly delusional is infuriating. It's contributing to my vastly-rising temper and it's only so early on into the day. "Do you even care?"

There's no change in his expression save for a hardly visible crease in his brow. "Randy..."

Even his voice is unreadable. I only raise my own to gauge some kind of reaction from him. "_Do you_?" I crow, and there it is. His eyes widen a bit and he props himself up onto his elbows...Away from me. Scaring him wasn't my intention. I feel guilty but can't apologize. I just need him to acknowledge this – whatever the Hell this _is_– and not act as if it's the most normal thing in the world. It's been driving me crazy for the past six weeks, and every time I look at him he's completely sane. I don't know if he's been in this position with somebody else before, but I certainly haven't and I can't keep doing this. I am not gay and I am not sleeping with another man. I am confused and am on the rebound...with somebody who just happens to be another man.

If only I could make myself believe that.

"Of course I do," he finally says, and once I glance back at him he's not void of anything anymore. His voice is small and his gaze is weak as he peers at me through long, blonde lashes. He's leaning against the headboard and in his undressed state, the sheet covering his lower half threatens to reveal what it conceals as he sits cross-legged. "Why would you—?"

It's all he gets out before I interject, knowing what he's asking and answering furiously. "You act if everything's all right!" I hiss, "You fucking pretend that everything's normal! We kiss, you don't bat an eye. We touch, still nothing. We fuck, and all you can do or say is 'that was amazing, Randy.' You don't even acknowledge how fucking screwed up this is!"

I pause to take a breath. I can feel myself burning up with fury and the fever for the relief of it. He's just sitting there, waiting for me to be done, I suppose, and that only just adds more fuel to the fire that is my inner conflict.

"This wasn't supposed to happen. I was drunk and you were there and..." I bury my face in my hands, trying to calm myself. "All I know is that this is fucking mental. It wasn't supposed to happen the first time, let alone again and again..."

I can't see it through my palms, but he's reaching for my hands. I do, however, feel it when he grabs one of them and pulls it away from my line of vision, intertwining our fingers. My head rises, and seeing him so sullen is enough to prevent me from exploding.

"I wanted it to end. I tried to tell you so many times. I just couldn't do it anymore. I was tired of lying, of pretending, and I wanted everything to go back to normal. But," I inhale, nerves and immense exasperation getting the best of me, "every time I'd look at you...I'd feel my resolve slip away..."

"And the possibility of not being able to kiss you or hold you or touch you anymore scared me...It still does."

I feel his grasp on my hand loosen in surprise. His countenance depicts it more accurately. "Randy," he begins but I have to finish what I'm trying to say. If I don't it will just be another thing I have hid away from. I hush him and he's instantly quiet.

"I think I'm afraid," I say slowly, coming to realization all the while it's pouring unreservedly from my lips, "Not because I've been sleeping with another man... but because I might have feelings for him."

His mouth opens, and whether it's out of shock or to say something I don't know. He doesn't get out anything before I'm confessing what I've been suspicious of for so long.

"I want you to care, Jay, because I care about you."

His reply isn't immediate, and it frightens me. Here I am, spilling my quite reluctant and cowardly heart out, and he doesn't make one single sound. But he doesn't have to say anything, quite the contrary, because in the next moment he's kissing me, and I know he feels the same way I do. I know with the racing of his heart and the quickness of his breath and the insistency of his lips. They're all just repeating every single word I've just spoken.  
><em><br>I care about you too, Randy. _


End file.
